


First Christmas

by Severina



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Community: lands_of_magic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 09:38:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4474397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumplestiltskin has a gift for Henry. Unfortunately, he has to brave Snow's Christmas Eve party and his own nervousness in order to give it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	First Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's lands_of_magic for the 'Christmas in July' prompt. Set sometime post-finding-Neal-in-New-York, nothing bad happened after that, la la la.
> 
> * * *

The door to Snow's apartment was partially open, light and the upbeat notes of Christmas carols spilling into the hallway, yet Rumplestiltskin wavered on the threshold. It was not too late, perhaps, to turn around; to hobble back down the stairs and into the street, to shuffle through the freshly fallen snow, to hole up in his little shop where there was not a hint that there was a holiday being celebrated in Storybrooke this night. In his shop he could sit quietly, tinker with some of his baubles. Listen to the wind howling through the eaves, and think of how much it reminds him of the snowstorms that used to blanket the Dark Castle. In his shop, he could be alone. 

Isolated.

Friendless.

He sighed and palmed the door open the rest of the way, stepped into the fray. Stood self-consciously in the archway, his gaze flitting back and forth among the sea of smiling faces. The noise was louder now that it wasn't filtered through the wood, a dozen voices all babbling at once and battling for supremacy with a chorus of female singers crooning about Santa Claus. His flickering gaze stopped on Bae – no, it was Neal now, he must remember – and he stood and watched his son smile as he looked besottedly upon Miss Swan. He shifted his weight and again considered flitting away before he was spotted.

Belle appeared at his side before he could do more than start to turn toward the door, her hand wrapping gently around his forearm. The warmth of her seeped through his jacket, settled in his bones and calmed his racing heart. 

"Rumple," she greeted warmly, "I've been waiting for you."

"Sorry, sweetheart," he answered. "I was…" He hesitated with the automatic lie on his lips. Busy in the shop? She knew well that there was nothing pressing keeping him there. Having car trouble? Not when he could fix a stalled engine with the literal snap of his fingers. No, he could not lie to her, and the truth was simply too embarrassing. That Rumplestiltskin, the most powerful and feared sorcerer in the realms, had spent the last hour practically wearing a groove in the floorboards of the sitting room, afraid to go out and face his grandson? The idea was preposterous, yet true. 

"Is that for Henry?" she asked, saving him from making a fool of himself.

Rumplestiltskin glanced down at the awkwardly wrapped bundle tucked beneath his arm. "It is," he answered. "I have a gift for you as well, Belle," he added quickly, "it's just—" 

He looked around at the chaos and confusion – Snow and her prince guffawing over something the saviour was saying, dwarves guzzling gallons of spiked eggnog, one of Cinderella's mice doing an abysmal job of balancing an ornament on his nose in a vain attempt to impress a quite distracted Red – and gestured helplessly. 

"I left your present at home as well. I thought we could exchange gifts later." She leaned in to rub a shoulder against his arm, gazed up at him from beneath long lashes. "Privately."

An evening in front of the fire with his beauty. A trade of trinkets, and then he could unwrap his true gift, show her how much he loved her as the flames warmed their skin. Now _that_ was something to look forward to. Rumplestiltskin felt the tension in his shoulders diminish, faltered only slightly when she grinned up at him wickedly before easing away. Surely she had somehow learned to read his mind, because he refused to believe he was that transparent where his Belle was concerned. 

"Why don't you give it to him now?" Belle suggested, and before he could answer – warn her that perhaps they should wait until some of the revelers had departed and the moment was a tad more private – she was raising her voice, calling out across the room. "Henry?"

The boy squirmed effortlessly through the crowd, and Rumplestiltskin let Belle tug him further into the warmth of the cramped quarters. Sweat crept beneath his collar and slipped down his spine, and Rumplestiltskin told himself that it was the body heat and not his own nervousness that caused his palms to dampen around the wrapping paper. Bodies seemed to press in from all sides, and he was proud that he successfully suppressed the urge to transport them all to a remote section of the woods to disturb the coyotes instead of his peace of mind. He must concentrate on the boy, that is all. Henry, with those wide trusting eyes that reminded him so much of his Bae. 

"Hey, Belle," the boy said. "What's up?"

"I believe," Belle said with a wide smile, "that your grandfather has a Christmas present for you."

Henry tilted his head expectantly toward him, and Rumplestiltskin panicked. There was no other word for it, none that so accurately described the sudden pounding of his heart and the wild desire to be anywhere but in that small, cramped apartment filled with inanely laughing people. He shoved the package toward Henry's hands without a word, swallowed around a dry throat when Henry frowned down at the messy wrapping before raising a brow and ripping into it willingly. The paper flitted to the floor and finally the boy held the gift aloft.

"It's a… ball," Henry said.

Rumplestiltskin could still remember painstakingly sewing the leather scraps together, stuffing it with scraps of cloth that he begged from the local seamstress. Baelfire was just a baby then and he just back from the war, unwilling to spend more than a few hours away from the child that he would have never known if not for his act of self-preservation. For many years it was one of the few toys that he was able to provide for his son.

He could still remember the first time that Bae caught the ball when it was tossed to him. The way he fumbled with it in his tiny hands, barely able to hold it in his grip. The surprised smile on his face. 

He ripped his gaze away from Henry's confused look, found that Bae – Neal – had crept in from the outskirts of the crowd. Hard to read, his son; the unguarded openness of his youth consumed by the hardship of so many painful years. But he was staring at the tattered old toy, and his Emma in turn was staring between her lost love and her son, and though Rumplestiltskin spoke to Henry he found that could not look away from his Bae. "I made it," he finally said. "It belonged to your father."

Henry's head snapped up, eyes bright and darting between the two of them. "Really?"

Rumplestiltskin opened his mouth, but it was Neal who answered. "Yup," he says. "Spent a lot of hours playing with that."

"Wow!" Henry gushed. "Thanks, Grampa!"

Rumplestiltskin found himself with an armful of enthusiastic eleven-year-old, almost staggered back with the onslaught when Henry's arms wrapped around his waist. After a moment he raised a hand to rest his palm momentarily on Henry's head, soft silken hair that too reminded him of his son. "I'm glad you like it, Henry," he said.

The boy twisted away, grinned gap-toothedly up at him. "Wait'll I show my mom!" he said before rushing off. Rumplestiltskin tracked his progress long enough to see that the mom in question appeared to be Regina before turning back to the little group huddled in front of the open door. Folded his hands around the head of his cane. He was aware on some level that Bashful was now telling an off-colour story that made a mockery of his name, and that Snow had taken Emma by the arm and was whispering in her ear while darting none-too-subtle glances in his direction. But most of his attention was taken up by his son, still hovering on the periphery of the circle that had been made up of himself and Belle and Henry.

"That was… nice of you," Neal finally said.

Rumplestiltskin straightened his shoulders. So stiff and formal now, all the time, when his mind was filled with memories of hugging Bae to his chest, of smoothing the boy's hair away from his eyes, of curling up next to him to share his body heat on bitterly cold nights and lulling him to sleep with fantastical stories. All tactile memories, and now he had to press his fingers together so that he would not subconsciously reach out to touch the man's arm and accidentally drive him away. "I wanted to give him something that had… meaning," he answered.

A slight nod was all he got from his son in acknowledgement. Bae turned to go – back to Emma, to raucous laughter and the noise of the party, to the strangers with whom he now spent his days – and Rumplestiltskin felt his shoulders slump.

"We're having dinner!" Belle said.

Bae stopped, raised an eyebrow.

Bless her.

"Tomorrow," Belle clarified. "Just a small Christmas dinner for the two of us. I'm going to make glazed duck. Well, I'm going to try. I was never very good in the kitchen. Rumple puts up with a lot of burned meals from me, I'm afraid."

"That's…" Bae cocked his head. "Okay. Good luck?"

"There's sure to be plenty of leftovers," Belle forged on quickly. "On the twenty-sixth. You could stop by if you wanted. With Henry. That is, if you don't already have plans."

His son darted a glance toward him, and Rumplestiltskin once again straightened. Tried his best to look welcoming, and not desperate. Wished, not for the first time, for a spell or potion that could drive away the hurt and feelings of betrayal in Bae's heart; that would enable his son to love him again.

"I'm not sure," Bae said haltingly. "I'd have to talk to Emma—"

"Of course," Belle said. "She's welcome as well. Just stop in if you can. We'll hope to see you."

Baelfire nodded again, and this time he made good on his escape. Rumplestiltskin forced himself not to follow his son's path with his eyes, turned to Belle and took her hands in his instead. "I love you," he said quietly.

Belle beamed. "I know."

"Does this mean we can leave now?"

"We should stay a little while longer, Rumple," Belle said. "You just walked in the door. Besides, you should try one of Granny's sweet tarts. And I don't think Henry is finished showing off his ball to everyone who will listen," she finished with a nod toward the living room.

He followed her gesture to see his grandson regaling Hopper and one of the dwarfs, all big gestures and wide smiles, the ball tucked firmly beneath his arm. When Bae came up behind Henry and squeezed a hand on his shoulder Rumplestiltskin was again forcefully reminded of the past – of trudging through the snow on a night much like this one to fetch Bae for dinner only to find him surrounded by the other children of the village, their spellbound faces upturned to his as he repeated one of the fables his father had concocted the night before. He'd always intended to scold Bae then; had always stayed and let him finish his tale instead, much as his son was doing with Henry now. 

As he watched, Henry turned toward him. Smiled at him before glancing over his shoulder to look up fondly at his father. Bae followed Henry's gaze and nodded again, and this time the faintest of smiles played about his lips before he looked away.

Rumplestiltskin felt the first faint tingling of hope. An odd sensation, but one he welcomed. Perhaps he could not change the decisions of the past or alter the bitterness in Bae's heart, but he could make a good future for his son. For his grandson. He could try – truly try – to be a good man, one worthy of their love. He thought briefly of his cluttered shop, of his earlier wish to be back there alone with his dusty trifles and gloomy memories. Might be there now, had Belle not waylaid him at the door.

He raised her hand, pressed his lips to her knuckles. "Of course we must stay, sweetheart," he murmured. "But not too late, hmm? We have gifts to unwrap."

Belle giggled and led him toward the tray of Granny's hors d'oeuvres. He dutifully sampled three and – in keeping with his vow to be a good man – kept his opinion on the taste of them to himself. There were, however, limits to his largesse. 

Not even his grandson's cajoling could convince him to partake in Christmas karaoke.


End file.
